


Epilog: Further Evidence

by quercus



Series: Evidence [4]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-01
Updated: 1999-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/quercus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epilog to the "Evidence" trilogy. Alex Krycek's new life, as revealed through excerpts from his employer's journal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilog: Further Evidence

January 25

I had lunch again with that nice Tom Pynchon today. He certainly is a good looking man, and such congenial company. I've always found intelligence sexy, but looks don't hurt. Those eyes -- as green as grass, and surrounded by thick black eyelashes. A weak chin, but such a sweet mouth. Mmm. Oh, Emma. Down, girl

He lost his arm, somehow; I haven't asked how, nor do I plan to. The loss must have occurred some time ago, because he has adapted almost completely. I've only known one other person who was missing an arm. One of our students. But that was congenital -- she was born without her lower arm. She wasn't a very nice person, and I used to wonder if the missing arm had something to do with her disagreeable personality. But Tom certainly has no such attitude.

This is his second semester teaching for me, and I'm very pleased. One of my student assistants has him for an instructor. I've asked her about him, but she can't get past his looks. His teaching evaluations were excellent at the end of his first semester, though, and the faculty in his department like him. I hope he stays for a while. Maybe I should talk to his department chair, see about offering a summer school class.

February 3

 

Tom came by the office this afternoon, to ask me out for a drink after work. I accepted, and we met at Sam's Place. Harley, Richard, and Big Richard tried to wave us over to the bar, but Tom insisted we find a table that didn't rock too badly. We both had ale.

I thought he was going to ask a favor, but he just wanted to schmooze. The political animal in me knows he's being kind to his boss's boss, but his company is so enjoyable that I really don't mind. He's entertaining, witty, flirtatious in the way gay men can be with straight women. I had a very good time.

I do wonder about this man, though. I remember when I was trying to hire him; he had me call Walt Skinner from the FBI, of all people. Walt was *furious*. I thought he was going to bite my head off. Flew out the very next day to make sure all was well. Told me that Tom was *dangerous.* Well. I never discovered what that was all about, nor have I asked. One thing administrators quickly learn is not to ask questions unless they already know the answers.

I miss Walt. I really like him and wish he'd come to visit more often. He and Tom don't seem to be very close friends, although he's been out twice to visit him. Once with Fox and Dana, and once with just Fox.

Now, Fox and Tom are obviously very close. Well, frankly, they're obviously lovers. Poor Fox is so uncomfortable with his sexuality, though. I remember I asked him about that once; he changed the subject, and of course I let him. I do worry about gays and lesbians who suffer from self-loathing, though. My dear sister suffered so much as a lesbian. That's why I know with such confidence that a person's sexuality is a given, not a choice; if anyone wanted to be straight, it was my sister. I hope she's at peace now, bless her heart.

So many people I love are gone. My husband, Henry. My sister, Louise. And my best friend, Jesus. All gone. I think that's in part why I'm so pleased by Tom's attentions; I need more friends, before I become completely isolated.

March 3

 

Today would have been my sister's fiftieth birthday. I feel quite lonely, so I pick up the phone and call Tom. Dinner at Tiny's, my treat.

He picks up on my melancholia instantly; he is a sensitive man, and kind, too. He holds my hand during dinner and tells amusing stories, gently moving me out of my sadness, into something else. A wistfulness.

Finally, I tell him about Henry. He died almost three years ago, of heart failure. His heart simply couldn't withstand the abuse the world gave it. Tears fill my eyes; I'm ashamed of myself. Must be the excellent wine that Glen recommended for dinner. Abruptly I stop and take a sip.

Tom sits quietly, lightly stroking my hand. "Please tell me more about him," he finally says.

Do you know how I've longed to hear those words? They fall like rain on my parched heart. I smile at him with gratitude, and begin. I've thought a great deal about this. "Your friend Walter reminds me of Henry." He looks surprised at this. "Of course, Henry must be ten years older -- well, he would have been ten years older than Walt. But they're both big men, who lost their hair early. Too much testosterone, I used to tell Henry. Of course, I don't know Walt very well, but I would imagine that he doesn't back down very often or very gracefully. That was Henry. He knew what was right and he did it. I long ago resigned myself to the fact that he was going to do what he was going to do, and that I could say very little to change his mind.

"But I respect that. I admire people with confidence, who are willing to pay the price for their confidence and single-mindedness."

Tom is nodding his head. "That's Walt, all right. He has high standards for himself -- and for everyone else."

"That was Henry's problem," I add. "He was always disappointed that the world didn't share his high standards." After a moment of silence and another sip of wine, I finally ask what I've longed to for months. "Please tell me about Fox."

Tom's face softens in the candlelight, and his supple mouth curls into a smile. Oh, Fox is a lucky man. "We have a long and fraught history, I'm afraid. We were partners for a while --"

"You were in the FBI?"

He looks alarmed. "Oh, Em, I should never have told you. Please, please, will you keep that confidential?"

I nod vigorously. "Of course. I realize that your curriculum vitae isn't entirely accurate, Tom. I'll never say anything to anyone." And who would I tell now, anyway?

He still looks worried, but nods again. "I fell for him the moment I saw him, but things just didn't work out. They *really* didn't work out," and he pauses, a rueful expression on his face.

We sit in silence for a while. I do feel better; I'm glad I asked him out. Jesus would have liked him so much.

Jesus. Oh my, I'm haunted by my dead tonight. How I miss Jesus. Yes, he would like Tom; I think they'd be friends. Jesus loved to gossip, and I can only guess what he'd have to say about Tom and Fox.

Jesus also believed he was psychic. Well, I'd never seen much evidence of that, but he was a strikingly good judge of character. I wish he were here, with us, on this night. I want to hear what he'd have to say afterwards.

March 22

 

The rumor mill is churning. I gather that Fox has returned to his Tom and they've been seen at Tiny's and at Sam's Place. Holding hands, according to one source; making out like teenagers, according to another. Both men seem sad and conflicted to me; I wish them well, and hope that physical pleasure can ease their emotional pain.

That night, in bed, I have to admit to myself that the idea of Fox and Tom kissing and -- let's be honest, Emma -- fucking is *very* arousing. Oh, yes. I wish I could see them embrace, kiss, stroke each other's bodies. . .

I've never been shy about masturbating, certainly not since Henry's death, but I'm embarrassed to do so with the image of my friends in my head. I banish them from my thoughts, as best I can.

I surely do miss Henry's arms around me, his knowing hands, and his passionate, almost-asphyxiating kisses.

March 23

 

I saw Fox with my own eyes, I'm glad to report. He looks -- better. Not as frail. Not quite happy, but not as unhappy. And yes, he and Tom were indeed holding hands. My heart jumped at the sight. They look very good together, very hot, as my students would say. My student assistant who has Tom for her history teacher was titillated by the news, her eyes wide and dancing. "Oh. My. Gawd, Emma," she said, as I rinsed my coffee mug and she packed up her lunch. "They are So. Cute." I had to laugh. I love the way she talks -- everything's in Upper Case and Drawled. Out. But she has forgiven Tom for not lusting after her, bless her heart.

I saw them at the StopNShop, buying toilet paper and orange juice. I felt a big smile crawl across myself and waved cheerfully to Tom. He nodded, not dropping Fox's hand; Fox blushed, but smiled my way. I didn't stop them to chat. I think they were anxious to get home.

On the drive back to my place, I thought of them, staying in Tom's rental. I have heard through the grapevine that the owner might be moving back from Palm Springs. And that made me think of Jesus' place.

Since Jesus' disappearance, I've never been back. I spent so many hours there; it really was my second home. Henry and Jesus and Steve and I would have picnics on their big back porch. We had a memorial for Steve there, when the ravages of AIDS finally took him, in the guise of pneumonia, one frigid winter. And Jesus took care of me there when Henry's heart finally gave up its lifelong battle. The house is full of ghosts and memories.

But it has been a house full of love. And sex. Oh yes. Jesus and Steve, then Jesus with carefully chosen partners. Even Henry and I when we would house-sit for them. For some reason, I've had great sex in that house. Good karma, good ambiance, I don't know. I told Jesus he should name it "The House of Happy Walls," after Jack London's home in Glen Ellen, California. Certainly I'd had happy times there.

And now the house was mine and I had let it go, all these years. I'd never even cleaned out Jesus' possessions. I just couldn't bear to say goodbye to my friend, and that would be the ultimate goodbye. Jesus and Henry had been with me when I'd cleaned out my sister's home; Jesus with me when I'd cleaned out Henry's things. But who would help me with Jesus'?

March 24

 

Fox is more than a good-looking man; he is a kind one, too. I watched the two men again today having lunch at Tiny's. I was lunching a tenure-track candidate for the English department (that idiot Toss Miller finally retired, thank you lord) and saw them across the room. Without making a fuss, Fox efficiently helped Tom tear the delicious bread into smaller pieces, and poured his wine. He was gentle with his friend. They smiled and waved at me, and I smiled back, but I felt tears in my eyes again. There simply isn't enough happiness in the world, that one cannot recognize and appreciate its all-too-rare appearance. God bless them both.

April 1

 

My birthday! Yes, I'm an April fool, and proud of it. I am throwing myself a small party; some friends from work, Glen from Tiny's (with his new significant other, mmm, Silvio, I think. He cooks at Tiny's and I don't much like him, but oh my, those three-mushroom ravioli are like edible clouds), Harley and Big Richard, and of course Tom.

To my extreme surprise and pleasure, Tom ushers in Fox, Walt, and Dana. My mouth falls open in shock as they bring me boxes wrapped with varying degrees of expertness, and hug me hello. I feel rather shy around Walt; he *does* remind me of Henry, although he must be ten years younger. Keep telling yourself that, Emma; he's too young, and obviously too much in love with Dana.

For I see they are a couple now, too. The foursome has rather neatly paired off. Well, perhaps not so neatly. As the evening progresses, I see Fox and Dana together, swaying to the Beatle's "Michelle." And later I see Walt with his arm around Fox, an indulgent smile of pure affection on his face. An interesting bunch. I really have no objections to other people's sexual preferences, but I must admit, I'm certainly *nosy*. Once again, I wish I were a fly on the wall in their bedrooms. Bedroom?

Much later, Dana finds me in my kitchen, staring out the window but seeing only my reflection. "Emma? Are you all right?"

I turn and study her beautiful face. Not beautiful by any traditional measure, I know; her nose is a bit big for her tiny face, she's short, and not very bosomy, but my god, somehow everything comes together. And those blues eyes paired with the glowing red hair -- I wonder what it's like to wake up in the morning, look in the bathroom mirror, and see that face. I sigh.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just a bit melancholy. So many friends are here, but so many are missing."

She nods, and a look of sadness crosses her face. She too has her ghosts and memories, I see. I take her hand and squeeze it. "I think we need champagne, don't you?"

Tom hugs me tightly before the four of them leave. Once again, silly old woman that I'm becoming, I have tears in my eyes. Sweet man. I stroke his face and kiss his cheek, rough with his evening beard. "Take care of yourself, my dear," I tell him, and he smiles with affection. Fox stands shyly behind him, holding Tom's battered leather jacket. I smile at Fox, too, and take his hand. "Take care of Tom, Fox," I ask him. He blushes slightly and drops his head.

May 15

 

Last day of the semester, thank you lord. Another one over and the quiet of summer to look forward to. Only a few hundred students, a couple dozen faculty, and the three hundred or so staff members will be around. I get more work done in the three months of summer than I do during the entire nine months of the two semesters.

Tom will be teaching summer school, a general education class in American history. Apparently he can do that, too. A talented man. We bumped into each other at the last academic senate meeting, horrible boring affair. He's been elected to represent the part-time faculty next year and wanted to see the senate in action.

Afterwards we walked back to the Student Union together for a cup of their nasty coffee and ended up eating a make-shift dinner of pre-packaged sandwiches and a bag of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies. When I'm with Tom, I feel as if I were also with Jesus; something about him reminds me strongly of Jesus. Partly it's my comfort level with Tom, but there's something else, too. Some deep inner sadness and longing. Jesus was a good and gentle man that the world had beat up, yet he had survived so much. I feel that Tom has had similar experiences: something, perhaps many things, terrible and traumatic, have happened to him, yet he survives. With his soft husky voice and knowing green eyes, he survives.

I seem to be attracted to damaged survivors.

July 4

 

A picnic at Tom's today; I had a great time. Dana and Walt were there, dancing in the grass in his backyard. She's so tiny and he's so big; I love to watch them. My nasty mind wonders how they manage sex. Darling Henry was, you should excuse the expression, hung like a horse, and vaginal intercourse could be painful. Nothing like an over-long penis banging against one's cervix to distract one from the pleasures of sex. I'd be willing to bet serious money that Walt's no slouch in that department. But Henry and I compromised and certainly I have no complaints; only exciting memories. From Dana and Walt's behavior, I don't think they have any complaints, either.

Fox was there as well. He's gained a little weight and, although he'll never be a fat man, he looks healthier. Not quite so Ally-McBeal-throwing-up-in-the-ladies-room thin. And he's much more comfortable with Tom. They, too, were dancing in the long grass, and even kissed in front of us all. Once I saw Tom slide his hand down Fox's back and cup his ass, then squeeze it tightly. Fox jumped away, embarrassed, but what a wonderfully mischievous grin on his face.

Tom dances with me, too. Eric Clapton playing on the CD, his "Slow Hand" album. My very favorite. I like dancing with Tom. Henry was a talented man but he couldn't dance for shit. I had to rely on Jesus to get my dancing quota in each year. I learn that Tom loves to dance, too, though, and promise myself to dance with him again. Not aggressive in the least, yet he firmly leads me through some moves I didn't know that I knew. When the song ends, I applaud him, and see Fox's face alight with pleasure and pride.

They're a beautiful couple, I think later, as afternoon slips into evening and the light subtly changes around us. Shadows become denser, almost tangible. My skin feels a little sunburned; somehow Tom has magicked away the clouds for his party. The grass is trampled and the trash can overflowing, but he's smiling as he sits on a rickety chaise longue, Fox perched precariously behind him. Fox is talking a mile a minute, something about a type of moss that grows on trees when the air quality is good. Tom twists around and kisses him mid-word, then stands up and walks into the house with Dana. Fox continues to talk to an amused-looking Walt, who moves onto the chaise, almost tipping it. Fox puts his arms around Walt's waist and rests his chin on his shoulder, never shutting up. They are a lovely couple, too.

I think again of Jesus, and how much I miss him. Yet if he hadn't disappeared, I would never have met these people. Would I have traded Jesus for them? For their presence in my life? Of course not. But that's not a decision I would ever have to make. Whatever happened to my best friend has happened; I can do nothing to un-disappear him. And if Jesus had to leave me, if whatever happened to him had to happen -- well, I'm glad that these people were the ones who came to investigate. And to inveigle themselves into my empty heart.

August 2

 

Tom stopped by my office, asking if I knew of any places for rent. Even a room for rent. His landlord has definitely decided to return to Haggerty from Palm Springs. Too much sun, I gather. I tell Tom that he can stay in the dorms until the students return, but I'm thinking of something else entirely.

That night, for the first time in over three years, I drive to Jesus' home. I'm glad it's summer because it stays light so late up here; I couldn't bear to enter the house at night. I let myself in and slowly drift through the painfully-familiar rooms. There's his CD collection. His pictures. His bedroom. Finally, I enter the kitchen. The two rockers still sit in the same place, empty, unmoving. I can't sit in them; I pull out one of the kitchen ladder-back chairs and sit and cry and cry and cry for my lost friend. My lost life.

For some months I've been considering asking Tom if he would like to live here. I try to imagine him in this kitchen, cooking, sipping wine. In the living room, working on his syllabus while the television blares. In the bedroom, with Fox.

Of course I'll do it. I don't even know why I drove out here. Just self-indulgent behavior. For a hard-headed administrator, I'm certainly getting silly.

August 3

 

Tom accepts my offer with enormous pleasure. His own home. I've asked him just to pay for the utilities and any upkeep; Jesus' estate paid the mortgage, and I'll pay the taxes. I give him the key and send him on alone. I don't want to see him when he goes through Jesus' things. He's a good man; I know he'll treat them with the respect they deserve, but I don't want to watch.

My heart feels heavy tonight. I miss my friends, my family.

August 10

 

Fox is here, to help Tom move. I saw him in the StopNShop, carrying out empty boxes. I managed to look very busy and avoid chatting with him.

August 15

 

School starts in ten days. Here we go again. Tom is having a combination housewarming/back to school party and I'm invited. I'll go, of course, but I'm dreading it.

I dress carefully, wearing my administrative uniform of khaki trousers and a black sweater. I bring a bottle of Tom's favorite wine and a houseplant the nurseryman assures me can live through almost anything. I have one at home and another at work, so I know he's right.

Lots of cars parked on the road and along the drive to the house. I recognize some of the faculty from the History/Political Science department. The house is lit up like a birthday cake; light glows from every window and the soft sound of music and conversation flows out into the night air.

I'm afraid to enter the house. What will I find? Will Tom have banished Jesus? How can I reconcile my loss with this presence? Then Walt steps out onto the front porch and intuits my distress. He sets my packages on the porch, next to the door, takes my hand, and leads me around the house, to the back.

It's a beautiful night. Once again, the clouds have dissipated to help Tom celebrate, and the Milky Way slides across the sky like tangled silk. The air smells sweet; something is blooming. Walt keeps hold of my hand; his slightly callused fingers gently squeeze and pull me on. I follow not at all reluctantly; for a moment, I can imagine that I'm following Henry again, and that he'll turn and sweep me into a spinning embrace, lifting my feet from the ground and setting me down only to kiss me into submission.

But Henry is gone, dead from heart failure years ago, and Walt is no Henry. The resemblance is striking, more so as I've come to know him, but his interest and attention are focused elsewhere. And that is as it should be. I'm of an age now where pleasure lies in observation, not participation. Walt, however, is a participant, and quite a vigorous one I should imagine.

And sure enough, his Dana meets him, rushing into his embrace as I would have into Henry's. Then Fox appears, and Walt hugs him, too; to my surprise, they kiss quite openly, Walt tilting his head back slightly to meet his lips. His arm still around Fox, he turns to me. Dana takes my hand and pulls me, at least for this moment, this splinter of time, into their charmed circle of love and friendship.

"Thank you," she says in her clear voice. "Thank you for giving Tom and Fox a home."

I am further surprised when Fox shyly steps forward and embraces me as well. Even in the pale moonlight I can see that he is flushed with some emotion, probably with embarrassment. "Thank you," he almost whispers. "I've loved this place since I first saw it."

I lean forward and stand on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "You're welcome, Fox. Just remember what I've asked you to do: take care of Tom."

"Yes, ma'am," he smiles, and at that moment, Tom himself appears, carrying a bottle of champagne. He's wearing a white apron and looks tipsy.

"Emma! Oh, Em, thank you for coming. I was afraid you wouldn't."

"I wouldn't miss one of your parties for the world, my dear," I tell him firmly. He puts his good arm around my waist and pulls me in for a kiss. He tastes of dry champagne, and I tell him so. He laughs and hangs his head, then offers me the bottle. I put my hands around his and tilt the bottle up to my mouth; the cool sparkly liquid floods my mouth with the sensual pleasure of a kiss. I drink and drink.

When I finally come up for air, gasping and laughing, Walt takes the bottle and says, "Let's go into the house. There's lots more champagne and we can use real glasses." He herds us in, Dana at his side. Tom has his arm around me but Fox has his arm around him. As we turn the corner of the house, the light and music become brighter and louder; the conversations clearer; the scent of whatever's in bloom deeper.

The house is a home once again, I decide, stepping onto the back porch with no trepidation. It's no longer Jesus' home, or mine even by habit, but a home for my friends.

* * *

First Posted: November 9, 2000


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